Chapter 12
Things moved quickly. I wrote Gabrielle in the morning and we spoke that afternoon.
I dove into getting my application materials together, working into the night: updating my research statement, pulling syllabi and assignments for my teaching portfolio.
I sent everything over late on Monday. By the end of the week I had a first-round phone interview with the search committee.
The next Monday, the first day of spring break, the department chair called.
Would I make the trip out for a campus interview?
Itineraries were settled, flights were arranged, and on Thursday, I left for New Orleans.
I had offered to take a cab but Gabrielle insisted on picking me up.
She chattered the entire drive, effusive and friendly, pointing out landmarks and offering history lessons.
We passed buildings abandoned and untouched since Katrina.
Gabrielle told me about a new city council candidate, young and razor-sharp.
Everyone was getting excited she might have a real shot at winning a seat, and Gabrielle had just joined her door-knocking team.
Off the freeway, we drove through wide, lush roads, windows down, the thick swampy air, familiar from home, washing over us.
“That’s right, you’re from Florida,” Gabrielle said. “This climate will suit you, then. Some of my colleagues complain about the heat, but after all those winters in New York, I love it. A little sweat is good for you.”
“These houses are incredible.” Weighty beasts set back in expansive lawns, the buildings celebrated themselves, ostentatious and grand. Even the smaller ones puffed out their chests.
“This area is really rich. And white. Beautiful but dull. The administration will only pay to put people up at the campus hotel. Which is fine for a few nights. But you’d want to live closer to me, other side of town.”
“You’ve been happy here?”
“I can find things to quibble over, but it’s a great job. The students are eager. And New Orleans just chills you out. It’s like you can’t help but find a work-life balance because we’re here. It’s the South. It’s Louisiana.”
“Sounds pretty great.”
“And Sawyer?”
I hesitated. “Sawyer’s been good to me.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve learned a lot and my teaching has improved. I just want to see what’s out there.”
“I know it’s stressful being on these visits.
And, god willing, I’ll never go on another one.
Nightmare. When I interviewed at Cornell, the chair insisted I get a drink with him after the dinner.
Just the two of us, this creepy guy old enough to be my grandfather.
He downed three frozen margaritas—keep in mind this was February—and then had his divorce lawyer meet us so he could sign some papers. ”
“Oh my god. What is wrong with academics?”
“Anyway, I appreciate the stress of these interviews. But I’m not trying to assess you. I already know I’d love having you in the department.”
“You’re very kind.”
“No, it’s selfish. I want fun, smart people here. You can ask me about anything, I’m not going to bullshit you.”
“Okay. Deal.”
“And, no offense, but you don’t have to bullshit me.” She switched to an appeasing, sing-songy voice. “Sawyer has been a wonderful place for me to develop as a scholar and teacher, and I’m excited to bring those experiences to the next phase of my career. Blah, blah, blah.”
I laughed. “That is what I sounded like, isn’t it?”
“No judgment. It’s how you have to be on these things. But don’t feel like you have to be that way with me.”
I thought of what my non-bullshit answer might be: Well, I’ve been lonely and depressed for a long time, maybe my entire life, but Sawyer only compounded things.
I dated a guy from the Math department I’m not sure I was even interested in, though I should have been.
And then I tanked everything for a nineteen-year-old boy who upended my life and ruined me for sex, which I am certain will never be that thrilling again. Did I mention he was my student?
As we neared the campus, the streets narrowed, and we passed through some blocks of bars and restaurants. “For students,” Gabrielle said, “Lots of chain imports from the suburbs. But there are some good spots, too.” The sidewalks swarmed with groups of people coming, going, hanging out.
“This feels like a real place.”
“I know tomorrow is epic, but after all the official stuff is done, we’ll hang out, a few of us.
So you don’t think campus is all we have to offer.
It’ll be me, obviously. And Tommy Pak, he’s amazing, our experimental poet, you’ll like him.
Desiree Lamar—she’s on the committee, so you’ve talked with her.
Brilliant, born and raised here. Her book of essays on post-Katrina New Orleans is coming out this summer.
It’s going to be huge. And Claire Albers.
She’s working on this crazy project, I don’t really understand it.
Something about cybernetics and modernist lit.
She’s great. Anyway, we’ll sneak you out of the hotel after everything is done.
We can just chill and answer any questions you’ve got. ”
“That’s really great. Thank you.”
“Well, we’re trying to convince you that you could be happy here.”
Happy sounded nice. And as we pulled up to the handsome hotel, buttery yellow clapboard and stately brick, grand, exuberant trees framing the cobblestone driveway, I thought it might even be possible.
In the profession, the academic job interview is referred to as a “campus visit”—as in (whispered with a mix of envy and skepticism), She got four campus visits before even filing her dissertation.
While it sounds pastoral, in fact the campus visit is a treacherous terrain of land mines and booby traps: a day or two of nonstop meetings, with department chairs and the search committee, with various deans of bizarrely specific subdivisions of bureaucratized authority (none of whom, if you land the job, you will ever see again).
Teaching demos, lunch with students. The so-called “job talk,” the presentation of your research—you must appear smart but not intimidatingly so; nothing to threaten any fragile egos.
Dinner with faculty at which you order a meal you barely touch, since you are performing and don’t want to talk with your mouth full or splash curry down the front of your interview shirt.
The advice given to terrified grad students prepping for their first campus visit is “Be yourself,” which is, of course, the opposite of what you should do.
I woke quite early, wired and alert, and went for a quick run, just a few miles, to burn off some energy.
Back at the hotel, I showered and dressed; I’d laid out and ironed my clothes the night before.
Because of the tight timeline—I was the third of three candidates they were seeing in just a few weeks—they had compressed the schedule down to a single day.
I double-checked I had my notes and my backup file and followed Gabrielle’s directions to my first appointment, a breakfast meeting with the dean of the college at eight-thirty.
It was fine, really, a pleasant enough start.
From there I met with the search committee, and then two more deans.
As the day went on—really, just a series of conversations—a strange feeling grew inside me.
Not a bad one, but something I couldn’t quite place.
In the afternoon, I did a teaching demo.
They had me visit a Comp class, which many programs treat as grunt work.
But the new department chair, Sam—an affable guy with a mop of wild curly hair and bright blue eyes that actually sparkled—explained they were trying to reinvigorate the curriculum, encouraging faculty to experiment.
The students were humble and engaged, the conversation easy, and I felt a tremendous gratitude—they were making this easy.
As they set up lunch for me to chat with the majors, I waited with Sam in his office.
It was hoarder-level packed with books and papers and boxes.
I said the students seemed really smart, and he concurred.
“You did a great job in there,” he said.
“That’s what education should be. A way to play. ”
And then I understood the odd and unsettling feeling: I was enjoying myself.
The realization that things were going well made the rest of the day go even better.
The department was, as Gabrielle had promised, a warm and friendly bunch, free of the typical academic pathologies of narcissistic self-loathing.
This seemed to be a group that genuinely, impossibly, liked what they were doing.
The day would end with the job talk and then dinner.
Before the talk, they gave me a half hour of solo time, stationed in a side room.
I spent it looking out a window at the lawn beyond, watching the patterns of Southern light shimmer and shift.
When the time drew close, Gabrielle came to fetch me.
“How are we feeling?”
“I think okay, actually,” I said. “This has been weirdly enjoyable.”
She smiled. “Everyone is buzzing about you.”
“Really?”